Parody of Function
by Gossamer Nightmare
Summary: Arthur's life is like a joke on proper function. When Francis leaves him, the pieces crumble. A continuous stream of letters from an old friend helps him through turbulent, changing times. Past FrUK, eventual US/UK.


****

Parody of Function

_A one-shot._

-Arthur's life is like a joke on proper function-

**A/N:** This one-shot came about as a mixing of ideas – one that I do love to incorporate into my works, and another which I'd been meaning to play around with: rhythm and depression. So this is a story which I try to keep a form of rhythm through, while also incorporating irregular beats or passages, with a central focus on depression. The ending was something I wanted to leave up to the reader – leaving a question open for the reader to fill in, perhaps. Hopefully it turned out well, as I was slightly nervous about the way it would turn out. Some parts are less than satisfactory for me (as all of my recent work seems to be), but I figured I would post it anyhow. It was very nice to get back to one-shots for a change.

**Rating:** T, for mild language.

**Pairings:** Past FrUK (as well as mentioned PrUK), eventual USUK. This story was originally intended to be FrUK, but for some reason it just…morphed into something else. Which is really very sad…so I worked past FrUK into the storyline, while keeping everything intact.

**Summary:** Arthur's life is like a joke on proper function. When Francis leaves him, the pieces crumble. A continuous stream of letters from an old friend helps him through turbulent, changing times.

* * *

"**Depression is rage spread thin."**

–**Paul Tillich**

* * *

_Tta-tta-tta-ttap…_

It's been a while, hasn't it? Arthur greets the blank document with a dissatisfied, positively _disgusted_ smile.

It really _has_ been a while, he realizes with an irritable grunt. Nothing new crosses his mind for this entry. Nothing new has come to him in months. The more he thinks of what to write about, the more he strays from relevant topics to his own life issues. How terrible of him, to not be able to use the years of higher education he'd gained over the years – that was where his life just seemed to pick up and eventually tumble down. It was where he'd begun this insanity.

_Tta-tta-tta-ttap…__**tta-tta-tta-ttap…**_

He can't help but tap his fingers. He needs to keep himself busy, because thinking? Thinking drives him _insane_, and right now, he'll do anything to stay sane. He's been fighting a losing battle against his mind for a while now, and on his wit's end, he's resorted to sounds, to talking to himself in public, to singing out loud rather embarrassingly. If only because it keeps him occupied.

Anything. To stay alive, he'll do anything.

_**Tta-tta-tta-ttap…**__tta-tta-tta-ttap…_

Arthur's fingers move vigorously across the keyboard for a full half-hour. Most of that time was spent using the delete key, and in the end, the document looked like this:

'Things are getting old, and fast. And the faster they go, the more painful it feels.

The more I think, the more I regret…

I'm stuck here, aren't I? Will I always feel this way? Tired, broken, and fed up?

Fuck my life. I'm done with it.

Arthur Kirkland.'

He laughs. He smiles. Because he _knows_ things are done, and he's happy that they are. But _some_thing inside him breaks, because he _just doesn't understand_ why. _Why him?_ Why, of all people, of all _times_, does he fuck up this badly?

Is it really his fault? Or should he be blaming someone else? Would blaming someone else make him look even more pathetic than he already is? Why can't he just get help, and when did this all start, and why is he thinking of all of this _now_, why does that face keep coming back to him when it should be _his_, his beloved-months-ago, and why is he inventing words, and dear _Lord_, he knows he's in so much trouble, too much trouble, and _when_ will he stop regretting every decision he ever _made_ –

And he's just sick of thinking. It's what got him to this point, right?

_Tta-tta…tta…ttap…_

It's raining outside. When had that begun? Maybe, he thinks, he should pay attention to something other than the deep hurt, the gaping hole, deep inside him that seems to eat him from the inside out. It's pathetic of him, and he knows this thought so much, and why? Why? What's wrong with him? The bluntness of his fingernails digs into his palms, but he just can't seem to feel the pain, he never could…

_**TTA-TTA-TTA-TTAP.**_

In a fit of rage that comes with the tightening of his throat, roaring after a small choked, garbled sound (_like 'Someoneohplease__**helpme**__for__**God'ssake**__!'_), he tosses his laptop aside, not caring as the expensive, sleek piece of machinery bounces on the hardwood floors of his apartment and shatters, like his resolve, his _pride_, and slides to the floor, feeling like he's in as many pieces as the object that stored his life's work is in.

_Tta…tta…tta…ttap…_

From the tears running down his face, he knows he's crying.

_Tta…tta-tta…ttap…_

As his chest heaves and he hiccups, he knows he's doing so in the most pathetic way possible.

_Tta…tta…tta…ttap…_

And as he sits there, thinking up as many ways to kill himself as possible, he knows he's hit the end of his line.

* * *

"**Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember."**

—**Seneca**

* * *

Arthur's taken to crying recently. In the six months of his depression, he's gone through many phases: the first was drinking, which he did think worked very well. Or at least, it was his favorite, because it made him forget. For the sake of his tenants, and the fact that he needed a place to live, he stopped. If only for that reason.

Then, he'd begun to take Sudafed mixed with varying types of alcohol. This remedy was short-lived, as the effect it had on his body scared him half to death. Without it, his insomnia was back and worse than ever. He hadn't had a solid hour of sleep in weeks.

There was noise making after that, which he's continued to do for lack of a better distraction. When he's not crying or singing loudly to albums he's playing in the background, Arthur relives his life. He believes he's finally pinpointed his whole issue, which he knows to have begun, six months ago, with his breaking off of a three-month relationship (the longest he'd ever kept!) with one Francis Bonnefoy.

"Francis," the name isn't poison on his tongue like it had been two months ago. Now it's warmth, a sorrow, a pang in his heart once spoken to trigger happy or embarrassing or – dare he even mention it – lewd memories of the three months he'd spent with that man.

He still remembers the e-mail he'd sent Francis last week:

'Why give up something so perfect, Francis? I really do miss you. I miss you more than I can express in a letter. And I don't know…I feel lost without you. Tell me, what the hell am I supposed to do?

I'm not mad at you anymore. I'm mad at myself.

I won't beg for you to come back, and I think you know why.'

Francis responded, a day later, like this:

'Arthur, please take care of yourself. I wouldn't want you to beg anyway – I don't want to go back.

I'm sure you have more important things to do with your time than write to some pointless man you spent three useless months with.'

His reply? Well…he didn't have one. What could he say to that?

He could tell Francis how he felt about those months, or he could simply ignore the issue.

Like he did with many things, and like he did years ago with another, Arthur chose to ignore the issue.

Now, laying in a nest of blankets, sheets and pillows stripped from his bed and tossed under his kitchen table, curled into a fetal position, Arthur thought only of Francis, of that silky golden hair and those dreamy blue eyes which he adored, but always insulted, too embarrassed to summon the words into a pleasant, heart-warming string of words. He held a soft spot in his heart for that man, even through their ups and downs – they'd always seemed to hate each other, at first, fighting over little things, but Francis worked his way into his heart in a very tricky way, and soon enough, Arthur was head-over-heels for the Frenchman.

His first _serious_ relationship, he'd called it.

Their first date turned out to be smooth enough, despite Francis' inability to keep his hands off of him. The second date went a little better, until he'd tried to convince Arthur to let him stay the night. All of their dates seemed to get better and better, with more time to see each other and bond, both physically and mentally, during and between them.

Francis charmed Arthur so easily, he hadn't really thought about the things he did clearly. Reflecting upon this, Arthur would have saved himself a good deal of heartbreak if he'd just done so.

The day came when he'd spoken out of line. They were employed men, both had been in too many failed relationships to count – they had different interests in relationships, which was what they had learned about one another. Arthur could clearly remember the uncomfortable conversation.

"_I've always imagined owning a nice, quiet apartment somewhere in London with you, Francis," Arthur smiled shyly, sidling a little closer to Francis, who sat on the couch just a cushion away, flipping through the Sunday newspaper. Still early in the morning, his hair was nearly as messy as Arthur's (which Francis would never admit to, never in his lifetime). This was one moment where he hadn't been too afraid to speak up, for once, and normally this would make Francis shout for joy. But…something wasn't right. He felt the Frenchman tense up._

"_I…I see," Francis' answer was quick, nervous, even. Just as nervous as Arthur's comment had been._

"_So what do you think?" Arthur's thick brows knit together in suspicion._

"_I think," Francis shut the paper, turning to look at Arthur. "I think that we might have to talk about this."_

_Arthur snorted, stood up and paced off, because now his heart was beating, he __**knew**__ that he hadn't said something right, and he'd messed everything up – "Nonsense! It's just a simple answer: great, or no?" And as usual, Arthur tried to sidestep the underlying issue._

"_No, not about that, Arthur." Francis' pause was long. He'd been watching Arthur make little circles on the clear floor behind the couch, saying nothing, as if fearful of what may come to happen if he did. "I'm talking about where we want this relationship to go. It has been two months, non?"_

"_**Three**__, Francis," Arthur berated, glaring fiercely at the other, "__**three**__. How could you forget that?"_

_Francis smiled in a way that was both nervous, apologetic, and oddly endearing to him. "Three months – my apologies. This is the longest relationship you and I have ever held down, and – I know this may be difficult – "_

"_**No**__," Arthur's eyes went wider at the start of the word he didn't want to hear, and he stepped back a little, shaking his head. "No, don't you __**say it, damn it**__!"_

"_But I think that we need to consider how we feel about each other. About…__**this**__." Francis had continued anyway._

"_Francis…did you just call our relationship '__**this**__'?" He was just hearing things, right?_

"_Indeed, I did. Because…I'm not sure I feel the same way about…__**this**__…as you do. What was your aim? Your motive, so to speak? What were you looking for?"_

"_Something long-term," Arthur answered as an icy numbness ran through his body, causing his mind to be painfully sharp and aware of every little thing the other man was doing – fidgeting a bit, looking nervous, guilty, like he needed to get the __**hell outta there**__ – ! And was he just imagining things? "I…I got tired of flings. I just want someone perfect for me. You really seemed to be the one."_

_Francis shook his head, smiled, and chuckled a little sadly. "And that's where we differ. I'm not ready to give up on being single, Arthur. I just don't feel ready to have someone relying on me, and me relying on them in turn. It's a far better world for me right now if I just fool around, and to be honest? I thought that was what you were dating me for, too. No one has ever thought of me as a life partner, Arthur. You'd be the first to ever think that." He stood, moved forward, and tried to grab hold of Arthur, but the stubborn man shoved him harshly away, stepped backwards._

"_No. Stay away from me, Francis!"_

"_Don't be immature about this, Arthur." Francis frowned, stepping forward again, and this time – successfully – caught the sides of Arthur's face with his smooth hands, and forced him to look up into his dreamy blue eyes. "Do yourself a favor and keep looking for that __**real**__ someone, because I'm not that guy, or hell, even that girl, if you don't take favor in gender! I'm not doing you any favors by wasting your time. So…I'll apologize for that. Sorry for the useless three months, Arthur. Adieu." He'd kissed his forehead, released him and stepped back, moving around the apartment to collect his things._

_Arthur chased after him. "What the hell are you saying, Francis?" He was desperate at this point, watching him take little things that had reminded him of the Frenchman – photos, books, CDs, DVDs, all borrowed with no intention of giving them back, as they were good excuses to make Francis come over, and the two to get involved with one another, and then for Francis to subsequently forget – as if watching him remove little bits of happiness from his crushed, bleeding heart, which had once sung a happy song (_the bandages are still on today, but they're not much help, and there's no cure for this kind of pain, he thinks_)._

"_I'm saying that I can't be a distraction to you any longer," he explained, and with his things in a box taken from Arthur's closet, he opened the door to leave. "Again, I'm sorry." Before he could shut the door, however, a hand caught the doorknob and forced it open._

"_You're saying those three months meant __**nothing**__? I'm wondering where you're getting this from, because I feel as though you've hit your head rather hard to say such a thing – Francis, the relationship we have means __**everything**__ to me, and you're just going to throw it away? You can't be telling me they meant nothing to you at all!" Arthur's breath came in short, angry puffs._

"_They didn't," Arthur's heart broke into tinier pieces, until it felt like a fine powder. "I'm sorry, Arthur, but they didn't. They just didn't. Please…take care of yourself." The door shut, and Arthur felt himself crumple onto the floor, confused, dazed, in complete disbelief at the turn of events. What had once been a happy relationship was now a gaping hole in his chest, covered in dust from Francis' crushing blows._

_He'd dragged himself over to his phone, dialed Kiku's number – the first and only friend he could remember at the moment – and when his friend answered in a confused, sleepy manner (he'd forgotten the time zone differences between New York City and Sacramento, of course), he didn't seem to register it. Instead, he went on ahead and spoke, "Kiku, I…Francis just broke up with me."_

"_What? Did you say that Francis – "_

"_Yes," then the tears came, poured silently from his eyes – the first in many years – "Yes, I did." It was as if he had just come to understand it then._

_He'd hung up without another word, and did not answer any of the calls Kiku attempted to make after that._

Under the covers, he fingered the sharp edges not pressing into his skin of a solid object, reddened and puffed eyes wide from the thoughts of Francis and happier days. Even before that…had he ever really been happy? His family was boring – kept him homeschooled (as both were once great professors and scholars before an early retirement) and wouldn't let him play outside with interesting people.

During his teenage years, he was rebellious and snuck out often, getting piercings, scars and bruises from knife-fights over disputes on trivial, often illegal things. By that time, he'd tried most drugs, tasted most alcohols, and smoked almost every kind of object that could be smoked. His trouble proved too much for his parents, and when he was done with schooling, they were done with _him_.

One plane ticket later, he was on his way to New York City, straight from London, ready to start his college education. That was when he'd recognized things to be different, at least, but…how different, and what changed? Arthur asked himself this question so many times, and the only factor he could summon up into a logical and coherent thought was Alfred.

Alfred.

That name sent deep pains through his heart, groans of remorse through his mind, and his soul weeping.

_During the third year of his education, he'd been running late, and things just seemed to…happen when he was running late. It was a rare enough event – and today was the worst he'd ever experienced. He'd been running late for a midterm, one very important to him, as he'd studied almost the whole night through for it, and, before he knew it, he was fifteen minutes behind, running across campus frantically to get to the lecture hall, and suddenly there was a firm force which he'd run into, knocking the wind from his lungs and the ground from beneath his feet. He fell upon his back, groaning, and glared at the sky above him. "Damn it…"_

"_Oh, Jesus; sorry, man! I didn't see you there," some voice from above him called out in an obnoxious voice – Arthur locked eyes with this man, and saw that they were a beautiful sky blue, the color playful and mischievous, and holding some kind of deep, underlying mystery that Arthur desperately wanted to unravel._

"_Sure, whatever." Arthur allowed the man to help him up, glaring angrily at the fact that the man could do so with ease. "Now if you'll excuse me…" He began to walk off at a brisk, even pace, intent on making it to his midterm on time._

"_So you must not be from the area, huh?" The man followed him with ease, which irritated Arthur further. Didn't he see that Arthur had somewhere to be?_

_He turned on his heel, glaring. "And what makes you say __**that**__?"_

"_The fact that you haven't cussed me out or anything like that," the young man shrugged, laughing a bit, and Arthur swore it was one of the most melodic sounds he'd heard at that time._

"_Well, I __**would**__, but I haven't the time," Arthur voiced his concerns, turning once more to head for his class._

_Of course, the young man continued talking. "No time? Well…maybe we can hang out later?" He pulled out a pen and a sheet of paper, writing down his name and number, and handing the two objects to Arthur afterward. "Alfred F. Jones. Nice to meet you, um," he paused momentarily, smiling in a way Arthur found irritating and endearing._

_Ripping off the corner with the name and number, he considered crumpling it and tossing it back at Alfred – but for some reason, he folded it up, placed it carefully in his pocket. "Arthur Kirkland. I suppose the favor is returned…though it's honestly not under the right conditions that we meet." As he began to write down his name, he once again considered tricking the younger student – but, again, decided against it, and gave him his real number, folding the paper up neatly for him. As he passed the paper back to Alfred, their fingers brushed for just a moment, and Arthur felt himself shiver, as if feeling their strings of destiny weave together._

"_Arthur," Alfred smiled as he slipped the folded piece of paper into his back pocket, so charming, so…different from what he was used to seeing in men, especially in a city like New York. "I like that name. It's unusual."_

"_Hm," Arthur hummed, felt his lips twitching up into a quick, quirky smile at the edges, and instantly flattened it out to a firm, neutral expression. "Thank you, I guess. Now if you'll excuse me – I'm extremely late for my midterm."_

"_Seeya later, Arthur," Alfred laughed, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught the broad, strong frame covered by a vintage bomber jacket, the light-wash jeans, and the ashen blond hair…and he let himself smile for a second, at least._

_His professor didn't let him into class, and despite his irritation at Alfred (who he blamed for the mess), he was more than happy (though he'd never admit it) to receive a call from him._

Over the years, the two had been on the borderline between friends and something more, but something stopped them each time they came close to crossing it. Alfred had plans to transfer colleges and move to Philadelphia, and Arthur urged him to pursue his dreams. A little sadly, Alfred did so, but promised to write often.

A year later, the letters began to come. They surprised Arthur, and he hid them away, refused to answer, and he was sure Alfred was crushed. But Alfred still wrote one every month, as if hoping for any sort of reply.

Arthur loves these letters now. He has nothing else to keep him going. When the songs failed, when old memories couldn't hold him up, when forcing himself to keep going just didn't have any efforts, these letters seemed to give him small flecks of sorrow that rejuvenated his much-heavier heart.

Opening the lid of the box, Arthur pulls the first from its eternal place of rest, and reads it aloud to himself.

"Arthur…I've been trying to avoid this for a while, but I don't think I can anymore. It's impossible to go a day without thinking about you…

"I wish I hadn't transferred. I really do miss you. But…I think I had to, because it was what made me come to this conclusion.

"I love you, Arthur.

"It took my moving away to figure it out, but I love you.

"This is possibly the worst letter I've ever written. Normally it's not this hard to come up with words, but for some reason I'm struggling. It sounds strange, for me to say that I love you, doesn't it? I mean, we met in college, and I bet you're not thinking of me when you think of who you want to be with your whole life. I'm irritating, I know that's what you think of me, but I thought you might feel something else too…just because I've known you for a while now, and you're like that.

"Please reply back, Arthur. I just want to know how you feel about me. Reply back and…I don't care how things turn out for us. Just reply back.

"I'll always be waiting for something.

"Always yours, Alfred F. Jones."

He feels so sick of crying, so he forces the tears back. If he had let them fall, his reddened eyes would have ached, causing more pain to his body, straining to continue functioning on such little amounts of sleep. This letter, the first and most meaningful to him, has never failed to shock his brain into working a little more properly.

Never once, however, has this thought occurred to him. He sits up a little more, as much as his kitchen table will allow, and looks over the letter again, frowning deeply.

Perhaps he should…?

No, no – what was he thinking? Just because he regretted never acting upon his feelings for Alfred –

But he has feelings for him, doesn't he? That's all that really matters, especially when he has nothing left.

It wouldn't hurt to at least try, unless – unless Alfred had moved on already.

But that was just ridiculous, because Alfred kept writing to him, didn't he?

Or maybe he'd just gotten over Arthur, and found someone within the month. He hadn't received this month's letter yet, had he?

Arthur sighs. His mind would never be at rest, would it? He moves a chair or two out of his way and crawls out from under the kitchen table and the warm cocoon of blankets, cushions and pillows, and picks up the phone from its resting place in the receiver. Dialing the number of perhaps the only friend that had ever bothered to stick around him his entire life, Arthur sat down on a nearby coffee table, waiting for Kiku to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Kiku," his voice sounds raw, he realizes, and he feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment at the question that has yet to be asked, but he knows will be, as he clears his throat.

"Arthur?" Kiku sounds extremely worried. "Arthur, is that you? You don't sound well."

"I'm alright," Arthur assures, lying, obviously – he's lied about his condition so many times it feels like nothing leaves his mouth. "I had something to ask you, actually."

"If you're sure." Kiku doesn't sound convinced, but Arthur can't really blame him. "And what is it that you would need to ask me so late at night? It has to be at least midnight, your time."

Arthur checks the clock, and indeed, Kiku is right. It's 12:34, but he really could care less. "Well, I called to ask about Alfred. He's still in touch with you, right?"

"Alfred," Kiku says the name so fondly, Arthur can nearly feel the warmth of it through the phone. "Yes, he is. I speak with him at least once a week. Why?"

"I just," Arthur pauses, sighs in frustration, before forcing the reason for his calling Kiku so late at night for the both of them out, "I just wanted to know if you knew about his personal life. Is he seeing someone right now?"

"Well," Kiku pauses, as if to think. "No, I don't think he's been in a relationship for several years. He's been waiting out for someone, writing them letters every month of the year. I don't think I should elaborate any further, though…it seems very private, and I would hate to repay Alfred's trust in me this way."

"I understand, Kiku. That's all I needed to know. Thanks – you've been a good deal of help to me."

Arthur can hear Kiku smile and laugh slightly through the phone. "I'm glad I could be of help. Call more often, won't you? It's been half a year since your last call."

"I'll try, Kiku," he can't make any promises at this point.

"Oh, and Arthur?"

"Yes?"

Kiku sounds extremely tired as he says this, "Please call at more reasonable times. I had just fallen asleep."

"Sorry, Kiku," Arthur apologizes, not feeling as sorry for the other man as he really should – Arthur hasn't felt much of anything else but pain recently – before he hangs up without another word, placing the phone down on the table next to him.

Staring out the window at the city, with its glowing inner lights surrounded by the soft, natural moonlight, Arthur finds, instead of it crumbling, his resolve to do _something_ growing, prodding at him until he stands, gathering paper, stamps, envelopes and a pen, retreating back to his little cocoon of a bed; and forgetting the phone in the process, which stands on the coffee table, motionless, without its receiver to cradle it and make it strong for its purpose.

* * *

"**You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel."**

–**Anonymous**

* * *

_Alfred,_

_I guess I should apologize for not writing back to you. You've given me so many of these things, and I really haven't given you anything back, have I?_

_I'm selfish, and I'm not afraid to admit that anymore._

_But I'm also a coward, in one way – I just don't deal with my problems head-on. Maybe that's why I'm in the mess I'm in right now. I could never admit to being the coward I am until I began writing this to you._

_It's strange…whenever I start to deal with issues; it's when I think of you. That's why I'm going to trust you and tell you what's going on right now._

_Nothing in my life is going right. I've yet to think of anything interesting to write about, I can't take care of myself on an emotional level, nothing ever works for me romantically (in fact, ever since a relationship has ended six months ago, things have been getting worse), and to top it off, I feel the worst I've ever felt about myself in __**years**__. I've never cried this much in my whole life, and I've never been scared this badly, either._

_I'm scaring myself._

_Even writing it down makes me want to shake and stop what I'm doing – I'm really, really scaring myself._

_It doesn't take a doctor for me to notice what's going on. I don't even have to guess with it. I'm depressed. And not in the watered-down form of the word that American teens use these days to describe feeling down, either. I'm seriously depressed. Just a few hours ago I'd considered committing suicide, but as I said, I'm a coward. This is how I'm scaring myself._

_Is this letter worrying you? Well, stop worrying, because I know when you worry about me you'll feel bad for me, and I don't want that. I just wanted you to know what I'm feeling now: emptiness, contempt, negative things…and nothing more. I'm feeling enough self-pity to fill that quota, thank-you._

_Back to your very warm letters._

_I read them every day. Especially the first you ever sent me – it's so short, but it makes me feel the most. They all make me feel…better. And maybe that's just because it surprises me that someone out there can claim to love me. There are so many things I've messed up with, and relationships are one of them. __**How**__ you can say these things is beyond me._

_But if you're serious, you're serious. I might be throwing a curve ball here, but here goes nothing (everything, really – __**everything**__):_

_I think I love you._

_I'd ignored it for a very long time, the way I felt – feel – about you, really. It's the only thing I'm particularly good at. It's time I gave up, though, and this is how I'm choosing to do it, because I don't have to face you just yet._

_Hopefully I'll get a letter back from you. You don't know how much that would mean to me, receiving something in response to what I've just poured out from my head._

_Then again, I did ignore your letters, and that must have hurt – I apologize for that, I really do, and this time I mean it, trust me – you very, very deeply. If you want, you can just ignore this letter like I did yours, too, and pretend like nothing ever happened between us. Maybe we can pretend like none of these letters ever happened._

_Or maybe even that we never met, if that would make you happy._

_I'm apologizing, though, and I think you know how much it means to get a sincere apology from me._

_Since I've skipped over the formalities entirely, let me add those, just to make this seem more like a letter:_

_How are you, Alfred? Feeling fine? Better than me, I hope._

_Sorry. Normally I can write a decent letter, but it seems my writing abilities have abandoned me, just as every semblance of happy feelings have._

_Assuming that you'll get this in a day or two, I will wait for a response in two to four days. I hope (I really do) to receive something from you in return._

_Yours, if you want me to be,_

_Arthur Kirkland_

He folds the paper up, slips it gently into the envelope, and seals it with a grimace at the foul taste of the envelope's sealant. With the morning light peeking in through the windows, Arthur leaves his apartment for the first time in a week or so, leaving his letter in the mailbox, alone with the red flag up and waving, to be delivered.

As he returns to his apartment, he spies the abandoned phone and frowns, picking it up. "Did I leave you there? I swore I'd hooked you back up…" Arthur places the phone back into its rightful place, where it belongs, and he could swear that the 'blip' sound it made was a sound of contentment.

* * *

"**Sometimes you put up walls not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down."**

–**Anonymous**

* * *

Four days later, Arthur leaves his apartment to check his mail, and receives a letter from an address he knows by heart – tossing out the useless bulk of his mail, leaving just _that_ letter, with its messy (attempted to be written neatly) print – and a distinctive scent (the paper, holding cologne, Philadelphia, oil, old leather; all speak _Alfred_ to his brain and nearly make it short-circuit with excitement just at the smell). With the letter clutched to his heart, Arthur nearly clambers up the steps, surely waking his late-to-rise neighbors, while nearly knocking the early-birds over on his mad dash back to his apartment. Once inside, he shut and locks the door, crawls under his kitchen table, back under the blankets, and stares with his heart pounding at the front of the envelope in his shaking hands.

What will this letter tell him? A letter from Philadelphia holds his sanity, his ability to recover from this crippling depression – his future. With his hands still shaking, he carefully peels the envelope open, slipping the letter out and into his hands.

_Dear Arthur,_

_You know me too well! Really, you have me worried. It's not too bad though, is it? I really don't know what to write…I just want to ask you everything in person. Just getting this letter from you has me kind of thrown-off, though. I can't think of much, and I'm bad at writing these in the first place!_

_I never thought you'd even write me back! It's been so long, but I still felt like I should write to you. I made a promise to you before I left, didn't I?_

_I'm still single. I've been single since I moved to Philly. It's not like I'd give up on you!_

_Speaking of which…I thought it would be a good surprise, but maybe not. I called Kiku last night (assuming you'll get this two days from now), and he gave me your apartment number. I should be leaving after work, so I'll be at your apartment by four, if traffic is good. Sorry – I just can't keep sitting around here, and now you've actually responded, and what you said – I need to see you now._

_See you then!_

_Alfred F. Jones_

Arthur wasn't surprised to read that Alfred was going to rush over after work. Now, that wasn't to say that he wasn't _worried_ – in fact, he was in a panic, deciding what he should and shouldn't do.

"First," he began speaking aloud to himself, perhaps a habit now, "first, I'll tidy up a bit. Yes, that sounds like a plan." So Arthur moves about the kitchen first, tossing empty bottles of alcohol with varying brands, strengths and price tags into a trash can, then cleaning out his fridge by removing anything that was outdated; he highly doubted that Alfred would eat anything in his fridge, as it was all foods that he knew the man to dislike, and even refuse to eat on some occasions.

Moving back towards the kitchen table, Arthur takes the box filled with Alfred's letters, places his most recent within, seals it, and carries it with him as he makes his way into the small living room. Arthur moves a few pillows around on the couch, but most things in that room are neat enough. Out of the corner of his eye he spots an old photo, its protective glass covering having gathered a great deal of dust. He wipes it gently with his sleeve, seeing as his home does not currently carry many cleaning supplies.

The first thing he spies as he walks into his bedroom is the stripped-bare bed. He contemplates pulling the sheets and pillows out from underneath the kitchen table, but he doesn't have the energy to put his house back into complete order. All he does as he enters the room is place his dirty clothes into the hamper standing in one corner of the room, placing the box down on the nearest nightstand as he does so, and strip bare, intending to at least take a quick shower. He shivers when his toes first make contact with the cool tile, feeling them curl under.

It surprises him that he reacts to this, as it even draws a half-lived gasp from his throat. Not thinking much of it, thinking only of the lukewarm water that will cover his body in dissatisfaction, he steps within his shower, draws the curtain, turns the knob – a stream of water cascades onto his head, far too hot for the skin – and hisses in pain. He jumps back, out of the showerhead's line of fire, heart racing. In order to avoid the scalding water, he steps out of the shower (shivering at the shift of burning hot to chilly), moving to its front and reaching in to turn the heat down. As Arthur steps back into the shower, now a soothing warm, he lifts a shaking hand before his face.

Things are changing. His hand…it's shaking. And it's been a while, he realizes, since he's reacted this way – _normally_ – to everything around him.

**

* * *

**

**The eternal quest of the individual human being is to shatter his loneliness.**

–**Norman Cousins**

* * *

By twelve, Arthur is grinding his teeth in irritation. What does one where when seeing an old friend they've just confessed to?

By one, he realizes he's over-thinking things, really over-_doing_ things. It's Alfred. If the apartment is as neat and orderly as Alfred remembers Arthur to have always been, he'll tease him. If it's messier, a little unruly, then Alfred will no doubt _still_ comment. He's sure Alfred won't care what he's wearing, either.

He stands up from his position on the bed, walking over to his closet and pulling a button-down shirt from it. First, he pulls his arms through the sleeves; then he raises his hands and straightens out the collar until it rests neatly against the shoulders. After he's done this, he slips each button through the corresponding hole on the other side of the shirt, taking his time, spending it willingly, because…because he's not sure, but it feels important to him.

Then, he pulls a pair of pants from his closet to match the blue of his shirt. A dark gray, which he slips into easily, and tucks the hem of his shirt into the top of his pants before pulling a black belt through the belt loops and buckling the silver buckle. Turning back to his closet, he pulls out a light gray sweater and pulls this over his head, allowing the argyle material to settle before he adjusts the collar of the button-up shirt underneath so that it settles around the rounded-V shape the collar of his sweater makes.

Looking into the mirror attached to one of the sliding doors, Arthur sighs a bit, fussing with the hemline of his sweater. For just a minute, he chuckles softly, shutting his eyes. He can almost imagine what Alfred would say about his choice in clothing for the day.

"_Jeez, Artie, could you be any more __**boring**__?"_

"Git," he says fondly to his imagination, shaking his head at his reflection once his eyes are open again. His hair is dry by now, but it still – and will always – looks ridiculously unruly, no matter the amount of brushing it goes through. Still, he runs a hand through it in a small attempt to tame it, but the instant it's pushed down, each strand falls back into its original place. Though he doesn't quite like what he sees sometimes, there are things about himself that he can like, he realizes. And he can accept that. His eyebrows are large, his hair is never neat, but he's okay with it all. There are more important things to worry about.

Arthur leaves his room to look around his apartment. The couch's back cushions are all removed; pillows leaned up against the wooden frames. Underneath the kitchen table is the nest of pillows, couch cushions, bed sheets and comforters he'd slept in last night. Most of his photographs and shelves were dusty, and he needed to do his laundry. It was more than likely that he needed to vacuum his floors and carpets. But he had time. He didn't have to get through it all. In fact, he didn't _intend_ to get through it all.

He sat down at his kitchen table, went through old bills he still had to pay. Once these were done, he pulled out the vacuum cleaner and got through the carpets. Arthur started the dishwasher, and checking the time, found it to be three. "Decisions, decisions," he sighed, looking about the room until he spied his laptop on the ground. Stooping down to pick it up, he found a few of the letter keys to be knocked out of their sockets once opened, but otherwise, no damage.

While trying (and failing) to place the keys back into their appropriate slots at his kitchen table, Arthur hears a loud knock at the door. He lifts his head to view the time on his microwave, sighing at what meets his eye. Three-thirty. Not even four, and already Alfred was here?

As he stood, he felt his hands and legs shake. His chest felt constricted, making it harder to breathe, and his heart thrummed a chaotic, ceaseless beat against his ribcage that he felt throughout all of his body in the form of a prick through the veins, starting at the tips of his fingers and moving down to his feet. Every move he made felt sluggish, unreal – but so weighted that he could believe it. This day seemed to be the only real day in a long six-month pause on living.

Arthur moves down the hallway.

There is another knock on the door, and Arthur sighs. Before he can speak, the words catch in his throat, as if unwilling to be heard by another person when they're just a few feet away. A sudden anxiety seizes him, forces his movements to a complete halt. Will his voice sound different to someone else? Has it changed in just a few hours? After all, so much has changed since this morning, so why not his voice? It's been a while since he's seen a friend in person, he realizes, but he can't let himself get nervous about how his voice sounds _now_, of all times!

With a sigh, he forces himself to continue down the short hallway, nearly there when the knocking continues at a far more rapid pace. "Oi; _knock it off_, won't you? I'll be there in a minute!" The knocking stops and Arthur breathes a sigh of relief – hopefully his neighbors won't file any complaints now.

He places his hand on the doorknob, pausing for just a moment to wonder…will Alfred sound the same? Or has he changed, too? Arthur pictures Alfred, completely different, within his mind. A businessman with a suit and tie – the thought of it alone makes him laugh under his breath.

Steadying his shaking hand by knotting his thick brows together, Arthur turns the knob and pulls the door open, looking into blue eyes that just can't be obscured, even by the spectacles resting on the youthful face of a still-young man. Alfred is dressed very casually – still wearing his bomber jacket, even after all of these years – enough where Arthur feels a little awkward in his own attire.

"_But this is casual for __**you**__, Arthur,"_ the imaginary voice of Alfred teases him inside his head reassures him that Alfred wouldn't care if he was overdressed, not really – he might tease him to the point of irritation, but otherwise? Alfred would want him to be himself, which would mean that the young man wouldn't _truly_ question his motives for dressing in a certain way.

A few seconds pass. The two stare at one another.

Another second or two passes. Finally, Alfred's face breaks into a wide grin. "Arthur!" He drops his suitcase – no doubt forgetting he'd even brought one due to his excitement – and flings himself at the older man, seizing him in a tight hold around the shoulders. His head is pressed to one side of Arthur's head, while his arms trap Arthur's biceps and impede movement. Arthur is vaguely aware that Alfred is saying something, as his words all rush together and are difficult to decipher.

Once the younger man stops speaking, Arthur takes his opportunity to speak, "It's good to see you too, Alfred…" He opens his mouth to say something else, but Alfred continues talking, and Arthur _still_ can't understand a word of what he's saying, so he ignores him once again. After Alfred stops a second time – considerably out of breath – Arthur moves quickly to get in his concerns. "Um, Alfred…" He struggles around a bit in the tight hold before continuing, pushing slightly on Alfred's chest. "Could you please detach yourself from my body? It would be best to close the door and get your things inside."

Alfred pulls his head away to look Arthur in the eye, pouting – quite obviously begging. When Arthur asserts himself silently with a cold glare, Alfred sighs in defeat and nods. "I guess you're right…" He releases Arthur without another word, moving back outside to pick up his suitcase.

Arthur, having followed him, grabbed the suitcase first. Their eyes met, causing a turbulent moment of silence in which the two simply stared at one another. "Don't you _dare_ take this in – you're _my_ guest, and I should be doing this for you."

For reason of not wanting to argue – which was strange for him – Alfred backed off, stepping back into the apartment with a shrug. "Suit yourself. It's kinda heavy, though; that's why I was gonna take it in myself."

Indeed, it was heavy – it made Arthur wonder what Alfred had put in it. Nonetheless, Arthur picked it up with a small grunt and carried it inside, shutting the door with his free hand. He then carried it into the living room and sat it down near the couch, watching Alfred follow him in from the corner of his eye. Once it had been placed down, Alfred was back again, within the same proximity, leaned close to Arthur's chest.

Fixing him with a curious expression, Arthur raised a brow and poised a silent question, though he thought he knew the answer. He willed his heart to be still.

"Your heart," Alfred was smiling, "I can hear it." He turned his face up to look directly at Arthur. "Are you nervous?"

With a sigh, Arthur answered, "No," he was sure Alfred would never believe his lie, but he said it anyway, "why would I be nervous? I just haven't exercised in a while, so it was a little more difficult to carry in your things than it ought to be."

"_Sure_," Alfred laughed at how indignant Arthur sounded when he spoke. "You don't need to lie to me about it, Arthur." He stood up straight, forced Arthur to press his ear to his chest (Arthur tried to pull away and began shouting _something_, but Alfred just ignored him when he got like that), and smiled at the small gasp the other man gave in response to the loud, frenzied pace of Alfred's own heart. "See? I'm nervous, too." His smile was sweet, and it made something go soft and warm inside Arthur's chest when he saw it. "Like I said…it's been a while."

"It really has," Arthur sighs. He lifts his head and attempts to move away, but – no surprise! – is caught by Alfred's arms once again, and held against the man in a slightly slackened embrace compared to the last. Huffing in annoyance, though thinking fondly of Alfred's tenacity, Arthur returns the embrace with his arms wrapped around the other man's lower chest. He hears the gasp that Alfred emits, so he assumes that he hadn't expected for Arthur to reciprocate his actions.

The pair is silent for what feels to be a long while, but as Arthur looks up at the clock, he sees that it has only been five or so minutes. Looking up at Alfred's face, he sees the man's eyes to be half-lidded, looking directly at him. The blue seems so much brighter, brimming with adoration that Arthur cannot decipher. He furrows his brows, frowning deeply. "What is it?"

"I just haven't seen you in a while, and even back then, I couldn't do this…it's nice to be able to look at you. Pictures are hardly the same as seeing someone in person."

He hadn't expected Alfred to say something like that. Arthur presses his lips into a tight, thin line and turns to look away, embarrassed for just a moment. His eyes focus in on the window, whose curtains are drawn together tightly. If he were to look outside that window, would it be raining? The forecast called for rain. Why was he thinking of these things at this moment? He wasn't sure.

"Arthur?"

He turned his head to face Alfred. "What is it?"

"You really meant what you said in your letter, right?" Alfred's eyes were honest. When Arthur saw this, he attempted to filter the same expression into his own; trying to repay Alfred for all that he's done for his mental health thus far.

"Of course I did. I wouldn't write something like that and not mean it." Arthur paused for a moment or two. "You believe me, right?"

Alfred's smile was so bright and warm…Arthur wished he could have seen it six months ago. "I believe you, Arthur. I was just making sure." He presses his forehead against Arthur's sweetly, and Arthur can feel Alfred's warmth even more now, engulfing his entire being, making him feel safe, healed, like nothing had ever happened in the last miserable six months before.

"Good." Staring into Alfred's earnest eyes, Arthur finds himself suddenly embarrassed by how close the two are. He shuts his own eyes tight, unsure of himself – overwhelmed.

He hears Alfred laugh. "Nervous again?"

"I'm just – not sure what to do." Arthur opens his eyes hesitantly, finding Alfred's still open. "It's been a while."

"Same here," Alfred's reply is cheeky, so Arthur glares at him, though he _knows_ that Alfred will just laugh – and he does, and Arthur finds himself less angry with Alfred and more enamored. There was something in the way he'd laughed, or perhaps it was the proximity – the way that his chest jumped upward and rumbled slightly, shaking Arthur along with him, that Arthur could almost pretend he was laughing too. And the feeling was good, just _so good_…no laughter like Alfred's had ever touched him since Francis had left him an emotional train wreck, and to feel it again was like a half-blessing blossoming into fullness inside his chest, until he too thought he was laughing along with the charming laugh of the man holding him now, embarrassing him yet raising him from the ashes of shallow lovers like Gilbert and even Francis, in the very beginning, dusting him off, making him fresh and new with the same burning passion in his eyes, like the phoenix Alfred always knew Arthur to be.

From the ashes that Arthur scattered himself, Alfred would watch the older man lift himself after a long week or two of self-loathing, sometimes stumbling over himself and requiring assistance. Nothing was better than the bright green glow of his eyes afterward, like sunlight filtering through green bottle glass, spreading its rare and lukewarm love on your body, mind and spirit, washing you out thoroughly until you can think of nothing else but his face, and his words, and his beautiful, _beautiful_ entirety that he claims is sub-par or hardly as nice as people give him credit for, which you'd always wanted to comment on, but feared his reaction…

"Look," Alfred begins, smiling at him with the smile Arthur conjures up like a still frame in his dreams. "Just relax. Let it all come naturally, 'kay? It's nothing to kill yourself over." Arthur cringes at the choice in wording, remembering the rainy night just days ago where he'd broken down once again, intent on stopping his pain. But at the same time, he marvels at the way Alfred really hasn't changed since college, aside from perhaps gaining a centimeter or two on Arthur since then. Why this is a comfort to him, he doesn't understand, but he'll accept that as one thing that he will always like about Alfred. When the world is changing; when nothing is certain; Alfred will always be a constant he can rely on. An anchor that he'll clutch at desperately in order to keep himself from the tides of his own mind and the world around him, which he knows is moving far too fast for him to keep up.

Arthur nods. "Okay," he lets his eyes slide shut. Behind his eyelids, as he smells in everything he knows to be Alfred, hearing how he breathes, feeling the warmth that encompasses the two of them, he sees colors dancing – bright colors that he hasn't seen in a very, very long time. Six months, to be exact. Something seizes him deep inside his chest, constricts his easy breathing, holding his heart captive, like a bartering chip. _Do as I say, and I'll give you back to yourself._ What choice did Arthur have? He leans forward until his lips meet Alfred's, and finds it easier to breathe, his anxiety gone.

Alfred's lips are chapped, but very warm. They feel nice against his own, which he knows to be chapped as well – he often bit at them until they bled – but doesn't particularly care. He hasn't shared a kiss with another person in such a long time, and while it's an old comfort, it's made itself new with a fresh lover, though aged to the memory.

Alfred seems to enjoy it as well, even though it is very short – Arthur pulls back just seconds after initial contact, finding himself looking back into Alfred's eyes inquisitively. "I guess that was the right thing to do?"

"You bet," Alfred laughs again, and pulls Arthur as close as he can possibly get him. "It was the best thing to do, Arthur."

Arthur sighs gently, his body feeling much lighter than before. "If you insist." Pushing their tangled bodies gently towards the couch, Arthur was forced to nearly sit in Alfred's lap. The younger man was stubbornly refusing to let him go, still holding him around the shoulders. "Alfred, could you please – could you _please_ let me sit _next_ to you? I don't see why that would make much of a difference."

Alfred reluctantly releases Arthur, allowing him to clamber out of his lap and to sit down next to him. Once Arthur has settled down in his seat, Alfred pulls him closer around the shoulders so that he might lean his cheek against the top of Arthur's head. With a sigh, Arthur reluctantly – on the outside, reluctantly, but he dearly loves the gesture and is glad to be so close – lets his head be pressed to Alfred's chest, just above his heart.

They stay like this, silent. An hour or two passes where the two just enjoy one another's company, and especially Arthur. Alfred is like a blessing to him.

"What are you doing now anyway, Arthur?"

Arthur looks up at Alfred with a curious, narrowed eye. "What exactly are you asking when you say _that_?"

"I mean, where are you working?"

"Out of home. I'm a writer, Alfred – I quit my teaching job at the University to write my novel."

"Oh," Alfred replies, sounding slightly curious to the whole thing, "And how far are you?"

Arthur goes a little pale just thinking about it. "Not far at all. I just couldn't focus at all, and now I've wasted half a year…"

"Well, maybe it'll make itself up," Alfred smiles at him. "You never know, maybe it'll be twice as great from what you've had to deal with in the past year!" Here Alfred was, trying to tell him he'd make up the progress and have a great story all from the past year's experiences, and he had no clue what the novel was about! Arthur could appreciate his attempt at reassuring him on this matter, but he knew the words to be wasted. There was no way he could ever make up all of his lost progress in time.

"Thank you for your kind words, Alfred," and he spoke nothing more on the subject. His work made him nervous now, knowing all he'd lost, and with nothing to gain…it caused an ache to rush through his heart. An unhushable anxiety.

There were many gaps of silence for the two. Between them, chatter (which did include Alfred's teasing of Arthur's current dress) that felt normal, like winding back the clock to the times they spent together in college, made Arthur feel like nothing was wrong. Alfred had that protective effect around him, cleansing people in a deluge of golden blues and bluish golds. Arthur felt as though he'd been this close to him all his life.

At some slurred point in time (Arthur had given up on keeping track of how much time had passed), Alfred had yawned and requested sleep. The two parted ways to get ready for bed – Alfred remaining in the living room, Arthur returning to his room.

Arthur took his time changing, removing every article of clothing as slowly as he can, to memorize it. The way his sweater felt as it slid above his head and touched his hair. How many buttons his shirt had, and how long each took to remove. Whether his belt was difficult to remove or not, and if it irritated him. How easily his pants came off compared to the rest of his outfit.

When he was fully dressed in pajamas (the shirt was also button-down, coincidentally), he walked back over to sit down with Alfred, already in a T-shirt and a slackened pair of cloth pants.

Taking one look at Arthur, Alfred instantaneously grabs at the buttons on Arthur's shirt, tugging them up and laughing. "What is it with you and buttons, Arthur?"

"I'm not sure," he answers, his voice hiding a very, very sharp edge to it. He doesn't bother to change the warning glare he wears on his face into something subtler. Though Alfred still smiles, he's definitely received the message handed to him.

Alfred gives Arthur a sideways glance. "So, where d'you want me to sleep? The couch, or…?"

Oh. Oh yes, that's right. Arthur had never thought about this. Where _should_ Alfred sleep? And what should he say, and with what tone of voice? Again, Arthur put too much thought upon his actions. As he speaks, he turns his head away, refusing to look at the man sitting next to him. "If you'd like, you can sleep with me, I guess. It really makes no difference."

"Thanks," Alfred grins, hopping to his feet and pulling Arthur up in the process. "Where's your bedroom?"

Arthur looks nervous upon the mention of his bedroom.

"…What? Your cheeks are kinda pink…you don't think I'm going to—"

"No! Not that. Not at all. Something like that wouldn't embarrass me. It's just that…we can't sleep in there. I haven't slept in my own bedroom in months."

Alfred looks down at the couch. "So…here? On the couch, right?"

"No." Arthur shifts his focus elsewhere again, finding his predicament more embarrassing if he looks directly at the other.

"Then…where?" Alfred looks around the apartment, as if he could find it in the walls, photographs, shelves loaded with books, or the recently-vacuumed carpet. If he wanted to, Alfred could probably spot where Arthur had been sleeping these past few months.

Arthur grabs him by the wrist, dragging him into the kitchen and leading him to the table in the middle of the cramped space. He gestures with his free hand to the nest of blankets, pillows and cushions below. "There. Do you still want to sleep with me, Alfred?"

Alfred shrugs. "I guess it doesn't really make a difference – but you're gonna have to start sleeping in your bed sometime soon, because I can tell it's going to be cramped already."

For some reason, this statement didn't surprise him. Perhaps it was that he knew Alfred was being kind to him due to his current condition. Otherwise he knew the younger man would argue about it, complain, unwilling to sleep in such cramped quarters. "Suit yourself; but don't blame me if you're stiff all over tomorrow morning." Arthur pushed the chairs away from the table and crawled under, into the nest of warmth he was so familiar with, which he sometimes pretended to have missed him, for it was always cold without him.

Alfred followed after him, with a little more difficulty, and crushed himself in next to Arthur; his legs folded upward and not out as someone relaxing would normally place them. Either seeking Arthur's closer proximity or more space (or perhaps both, even), Alfred pulls Arthur against him; with Arthur stubbornly pushing back a little more. Once the two have stopped pushing and pulling one another, and have settled into somewhat comfortable sleeping conditions, Alfred pipes up, "Well, this isn't too bad. Are you going to turn the lights off?"

Arthur, with his head resting comfortably atop Alfred's shoulder, lifts his head as much as Alfred and the kitchen table will allow. He glares down at Alfred, which he figures to be answer enough, before falling back into the position he'd been in prior to Alfred's inquiry. From this position, he can feel Alfred's chest and shoulders shake with amusement, and hear the strains of laughter filter through his throat and reverberate back down to his chest. Once the laughter has died, he finds his hand being slid, by the other's, to rest over Alfred's heart, where he can feel the steady thrum of his resting heart.

Atop his own heart is Alfred's hand. Tilting his head up to look at Alfred' face, he finds the young man smiling. "We're both comfortable here, next to each other. It's really nice to feel your heart beating, for some reason."

He wanted to tell Alfred that it was because the beat was a rhythm that was steady, easy to memorize – something that rarely ever changed unless necessary, but he had neither the energy nor the desire to explain himself entirely afterward. So, settling with a shrug, Arthur responds, "Goodnight, Alfred. Don't think too much on it."

"I won't," Alfred replies, kissing the top of Arthur's head and shifting around a bit. "Night."

They fall asleep to a steady beat, which one likens to something he'd heard a long time ago and still listened to, while the other dances around it as if to analyze its sound and learn its deepest secrets. Both take comfort, and both take it like a timer to the light of early day.

* * *

"**To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart."**

–**Phyllis Theroux**

* * *

**Parody of Function**

**END**


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